Post by Grimm on Jan 15, 2018 10:02:05 GMT -5
Yuletide smoke spirals into a dead Kentucky sky. Tree sap sizzles and pops. Holly leaves shrivel. Juniper and garlands curl, flicker, erupt. The fire burns away the last of the season. The smoke carries with it the smell of all things evergreen.
Gold lads and girls all must, As chimney sweepers come to dust.
Phinehas Dillinger holds a spent match in sooty fingers. Granny stands with her hands deep in the pockets of her patchwork dress.
“I don’t know why she has to come here. She shouldn’t even be able to find Hangtown.”
“You know how she’ll find her way. She may have a different magic, but it’s a magic none-the-less.”
The spent Frasier Fir collapses on itself, throwing up a geyser of sparks.
“And she needs our help.”
“Mmm hmm. More like your help, now that she’s stepping back in that ring. Now, after all this time. After what you did to her.”
Phinehas takes a deep breath of smoke. "She can look after herself."
But he remembers.
Wrapping his fingers in the waves and tendrils of inky hair and through to the back of her neck he jerks her back to standing fully upright…just in time for him to administer a most severe Dead Reckoning! Smashing his cranium into hers, he releases her so as to not impede her downward progress. Medics stream in from the back.
They had to send medical personnel to tend to her. What hath Grimm wrought?
She stirs, lifting her head groggily, her movements slow and obviously pained. Grimm watches, another flicker of potentially human emotion crossing his face before the portcullis comes down once more. With a leap and twisting descent, Grimm lands a crashing Tornado DDT on the struggling superstar.
The Harvest.
Granny smiles because she remembers, too. She pulls out a marble. A whole galaxy worked into the glass bauble. She holds it close and squints at the whorls spinning inside.
“Wrestling seems like the last thing she’d want to do. And you seem like the last person she’d want to see.”
“This isn’t about wrestling. She’s taking care of something much bigger than that.”
Granny snorts. “It’s always about that federation somehow. Titles and feuds, and who’s going to be cock-of-the-walk at night’s end.”
She glances at Phinehas.
“And maybe a triple threat to round things out.”
Now it’s Phinehas’s turn to scoff. “Nice work, Granny, but there’s nothing to say. I’ve fought them both. Everyone’s seen what I’ve done to Crazy Boy, and they saw what I did to Razor Blade only a few weeks ago. They’ve seen what I’ve been doing this entire time. Now they’re both stepping into the ring with Grimm once again and they have big plans. They always have big plans. It’s the same story every week with those two. Things are going to change for the better. Wins are going to start piling up now. Title shots will be handed over now.”
“But they don’t. They aren’t.”
Phinehas cricks his neck. The 'pop' rings out down the hollow.
“And they won’t.”
“At least not at 224. Because they’re starting off 2018 not with a much-hoped-for bang, but with a whimper. This seventh anniversary show will be yet another in a long string of disappointments for those two. Nothing more. Nothing less.”
Phinehas puts the end of the match in his teeth and takes up a shovel (you know the one) lying by his feet. He sticks the business end into the flames and moves the remaining greenery around to bring about one final ignition.
The two of them stand there watching the burning, standing silent as the last vestiges of Christmastide flare away. Phinehas squats to pluck a glowing ember out of the fire. He looks at it, lost in the comings and goings of the reds and oranges, then squeezes. He tosses the cinders into the air, repenting in dust and ashes. They watch it waft away on the wind.
Phinehas drives the end of the shovel into the frozen ground.
“I thought Ruth was going to join us. She always helps see the season out the right way.”
“Oh, she has more pressing issues. She’s back at the house…readying things.”
“What things?”
A lonely crow rasps from the bare branches of a sycamore. It knows what Ruth is up to. After all, it brought her gifts to help her on her way. The crow croups again, but no one listens.
“Things. Just in case.”
“I told you…” but just then they both see the figure coming up the gravel drive. Silhouetted against the low winter sun. Phinehas catches a whiff of salt on the air. Granny wrinkles her nose at what to her is so much low tide.
Brenna Gordon has come to Hangtown.
Gold lads and girls all must, As chimney sweepers come to dust.
Phinehas Dillinger holds a spent match in sooty fingers. Granny stands with her hands deep in the pockets of her patchwork dress.
“I don’t know why she has to come here. She shouldn’t even be able to find Hangtown.”
“You know how she’ll find her way. She may have a different magic, but it’s a magic none-the-less.”
The spent Frasier Fir collapses on itself, throwing up a geyser of sparks.
“And she needs our help.”
“Mmm hmm. More like your help, now that she’s stepping back in that ring. Now, after all this time. After what you did to her.”
Phinehas takes a deep breath of smoke. "She can look after herself."
But he remembers.
Wrapping his fingers in the waves and tendrils of inky hair and through to the back of her neck he jerks her back to standing fully upright…just in time for him to administer a most severe Dead Reckoning! Smashing his cranium into hers, he releases her so as to not impede her downward progress. Medics stream in from the back.
They had to send medical personnel to tend to her. What hath Grimm wrought?
She stirs, lifting her head groggily, her movements slow and obviously pained. Grimm watches, another flicker of potentially human emotion crossing his face before the portcullis comes down once more. With a leap and twisting descent, Grimm lands a crashing Tornado DDT on the struggling superstar.
The Harvest.
Granny smiles because she remembers, too. She pulls out a marble. A whole galaxy worked into the glass bauble. She holds it close and squints at the whorls spinning inside.
“Wrestling seems like the last thing she’d want to do. And you seem like the last person she’d want to see.”
“This isn’t about wrestling. She’s taking care of something much bigger than that.”
Granny snorts. “It’s always about that federation somehow. Titles and feuds, and who’s going to be cock-of-the-walk at night’s end.”
She glances at Phinehas.
“And maybe a triple threat to round things out.”
Now it’s Phinehas’s turn to scoff. “Nice work, Granny, but there’s nothing to say. I’ve fought them both. Everyone’s seen what I’ve done to Crazy Boy, and they saw what I did to Razor Blade only a few weeks ago. They’ve seen what I’ve been doing this entire time. Now they’re both stepping into the ring with Grimm once again and they have big plans. They always have big plans. It’s the same story every week with those two. Things are going to change for the better. Wins are going to start piling up now. Title shots will be handed over now.”
“But they don’t. They aren’t.”
Phinehas cricks his neck. The 'pop' rings out down the hollow.
“And they won’t.”
“At least not at 224. Because they’re starting off 2018 not with a much-hoped-for bang, but with a whimper. This seventh anniversary show will be yet another in a long string of disappointments for those two. Nothing more. Nothing less.”
Phinehas puts the end of the match in his teeth and takes up a shovel (you know the one) lying by his feet. He sticks the business end into the flames and moves the remaining greenery around to bring about one final ignition.
The two of them stand there watching the burning, standing silent as the last vestiges of Christmastide flare away. Phinehas squats to pluck a glowing ember out of the fire. He looks at it, lost in the comings and goings of the reds and oranges, then squeezes. He tosses the cinders into the air, repenting in dust and ashes. They watch it waft away on the wind.
Phinehas drives the end of the shovel into the frozen ground.
“I thought Ruth was going to join us. She always helps see the season out the right way.”
“Oh, she has more pressing issues. She’s back at the house…readying things.”
“What things?”
A lonely crow rasps from the bare branches of a sycamore. It knows what Ruth is up to. After all, it brought her gifts to help her on her way. The crow croups again, but no one listens.
“Things. Just in case.”
“I told you…” but just then they both see the figure coming up the gravel drive. Silhouetted against the low winter sun. Phinehas catches a whiff of salt on the air. Granny wrinkles her nose at what to her is so much low tide.
Brenna Gordon has come to Hangtown.
